


float like a butterfly, sting like a bee

by maelidify



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, because who doesn't want to see our protagonists fighting over a stuffed animal?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:37:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3636960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maelidify/pseuds/maelidify
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a whole semester of unpleasant relationship confusion, Clarke isn't ready to be interested in anyone. Even her roommate's hot but annoying older brother. Especially not him. College AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke and Bellamy have an intense toy claw machine battle.

1  
  
No one in this town knew that Clarke had been the Toy Claw Machine champion of her high school (besides possibly Wells), so when Raven made the dare, Clarke met it with a small smirk and folded her arms. Postured, basically, because as close as she was to Raven these days, theirs was still a competitive friendship.   
  
“Which one?” she asked breezily. Wells and Finn were trying to pay over at the counter, juggling the money the girls had handed over; of course, the diner was as crowded as could be expected the weekend before a new semester was about to start, so the line the boys were battling was considerably long. They had time. Raven leaned against the clear glass and grinned.   
  
“Pretty sure of yourself there, Griffin.”   
  
“Just pick a toy,” she said, almost defensive. Clarke was always a tad irritable at the beginning of a semester. Or, she amended inwardly, she suspected she was; this was only her second semester at college, after all. But the vague nervousness seemed to provoke a hypersensitivity in her, an easily-overwhelmed state that her mother used to call artists’ syndrome.   
  
She kept her reaction well-hidden, but the lights felt brighter, the sounds of fellow students’ shitting around were louder (and more obnoxious), and even the smells were stronger. For instance, the cheap, greasy fries that this establishment was well-known for were smelling especially… cheap and greasy.   
  
Raven shifted and tapped her index finger against the glass. Dozens of stuffed animals in varying sizes and shapes grinned at them inhumanly. “The blue one,” she decided. “In the back.”   
  
Clarke glared through the glass. It was the most difficult stuffed animal in the case, a flat blue cloth butterfly with big anime-eyes, crushed between two bigger toys. _Well, shit_.   
  
“Fine, move,” she said, digging into her wallet for quarters. Blaring carnival music started up as she twisted the lever and dragged the crane over her intended prize.   
  
A stupid choice, really, she thought bitterly, trying to drag the crane farther back than it would go. A waste of fifty cents. She’d never have gone for this one back in her champion days. She’d been able to choose the perfect target back then, the teddy bears with overlarge heads, or the stuffed monkeys carrying hearts, large gaps around their arms perfect for snagging with the claw, or toys with some weight already dangling near the edge of the machine. It was a good post-debate trick (they always went out after competitions), and she donated the winnings to the children’s ward at her mom’s workplace. A win-win.   
  
This, however, was pointless and stupid.   
  
She suddenly felt a presence behind her. Great, a line. “You’re holding people up,” Raven called, and Clarke gritted her teeth before pressing the ‘drop’ button.   
  
The claws tightened around one vivid wing and the butterfly lifted up, dragged to the side… and fell, before it could make the escape slot. “Shit,” Clarke muttered. “Almost had him.”   
  
“Almost isn’t good enough, Griffin,” Raven reminded her, and Clarke dug in her purse for another couple of quarters.   
  
“Crap, I need more change,” she said. “You can go,” she said, turning to the person behind her, and man did that artistic hypersensitivity kick in, because the person behind her was _hot_.   
  
Not that Clarke was interested in that kind of thing. People being hot. Not when she had another semester of pre-med starting in a couple days, and not when she’d so recently gone through that confusing crap with Finn, and even more recently decided to just be friends with Lexa. Not when she’d made the executive decision that that whole Dating Thing was just a distraction from more important things, like schoolwork, and befriending people who deserved befriending, and painting, and schoolwork, not to mention the fact that the people she dated tended to either keep big, girlfriend-shaped secrets from her or try to fundamentally change who she was, and that none of it was worth it, really, in the long run.    
  
But still. This guy was tall, had dark curly hair, had intense eyes and tanned skin. He was hot. Aesthetically speaking.   
  
“Took long enough,” he said, edging past her rather brusquely.   
  
Okay, so maybe he was an asshole. (But he was still hot.) ( _Shh_ , she told her inner hypersensitive artist. _Shut it_.)   
  
“Didn’t realize there was a time limit,” she shot back before turning to Raven. “You got fifty cents?” she asked, and as her friend handed her the quarters, she noticed the toy that Attractive Asshole was aiming for was none other than the damned butterfly. The one, she noted inwardly, that she had knocked to the side and thereby made more accessible.   
  
“Hey,” she said, but the guy didn’t turn around. “Hey, that one’s mine.”   
  
“Funny,” he said, “I don’t see a name written on it.” He twisted the lever, arching his shoulder a little bit.   
  
“It’s an easy win now,” she added, “and that’s because I knocked it over.”  
  
“The more you know.”   
  
“Seriously?” she said, lifting an eyebrow. Was it necessary to be this douchy?   
  
Raven glanced behind them, fingers tapping restlessly on her elbow. “Forget it, Clarke,” she said, “the guys are almost done paying, we should go.”   
  
She was using her I’m Done With This Bullshit voice, and Clarke would normally be happy to oblige, but it was personal now. She didn’t respond, and grinned a little as the guy’s round ended and the toy refused to budge.   
  
“My turn,” she said, elbowing him aside.   
  
“You won’t get it,” he informed her, leaning back against the machine and crossing his arms. “The claw is too weak.”   
  
“You’re just going about it from the wrong angle,” she said, and rolled her eyes as he smirked at her wording. That smirk made her unnecessarily angry, and before she could take a moment to evaluate why that may be, she slid the money into the machine.  
  
“Take your best shot, princess.”   
  
“I intend to.” She bit her lip in concentration, shifted the claw so that it hovered just to the side of the butterfly. “Move,” she ordered, pushing the stranger aside (trying to ignore the solidity of his arm as she knocked against it, _unimportant_ ) so she could lean around the side of the machine and glance at the claw from a different perspective. “Hm,” she muttered, returning to her place and moving the claw _just a millimeter_ to the right.   
  
“She always this intense?” she overheard the guy ask Raven, and the other girl barked out a laugh.   
  
“You have no idea,” she responded.   
  
But Clarke couldn’t be bothered to address this comment. She scrutinized the crane’s placement a moment longer before dropping it on the butterfly. “Yes,” she whispered as the claw grasped the toy… _and promptly dropped it again dammit._   
  
“Told you,” the annoying stranger said, “the claw’s too weak.” He patted her on the shoulder and she shrugged his hand off.   
  
“I’d like to see you do better,” she said.   
  
“Oh, god,” Raven said, looking pitifully up at the ceiling. “I take it back! Dare retracted! Challenge eradicated! Can we go?”   
  
“What’s going on?” Finn asked as he and Wells approached.   
  
“Clarke’s getting competitive,” Raven said and Wells laughed. “Aw, geeze,” he contributed. “We’re never leaving.”   
  
“Guys, shut up,” Clarke said, peering at the machine as the annoying but hot stranger worked the claw. “Why are you even trying to get the butterfly anyway?” she added curiously, peering at him, his furrowed brow, his long fingers. The prominent veins in his hands. “You don’t seem the butterfly type.” Was there a butterfly type? She thought briefly of her roommate, who certainly not your typical girly-girl but who, for some reason, covered all of her binders with butterfly stickers.   
  
“I have my reasons,” he said. The claw dropped and knocked the toy over, shifting its position. It didn’t even pick the stuffed animal up, though, and Clarke grinned triumphantly.   
  
“Uh,” Finn said as Clarke took her turn in front of the machine, “how much longer are we gonna be here...?”   
  
“As long as it takes,” she responded, determined. Her competitor moved the butterfly an inch to the right during his last round. If only she could brush it to the side a little, she might just be able to knock it over the edge and into the prize slot…   
  
Sure enough, the tactic worked. The butterfly fell in a blue blur, and a fanfare tune emitted from the machine. She grabbed it, heart soaring with temporary triumph, and turned to her friends.   
  
“Told you I could do it,” she said, trying to keep a straight face.   
  
“Uh, Clarke,” Wells said, “you don’t even like butterflies.”  
  
“Or stuffed animals,” Finn added.   
  
“Or taking pity on your friends,” Raven added, “and knowing when to quit so you can all go home and get drunk.”   
  
“We can do that part now,” Finn said, “right? The getting drunk part?” Clarke rolled her eyes.  
  
“You guys go, okay?” she said. “I’ll catch up.”   
  
Raven threw her a salute as the trio exited, and Clarke turned to her opponent.   
  
Surprisingly, he didn’t seem all that irritated at his loss, in spite of the attitude he’d started with. He was once more leaning against the machine, eyeing her with a bemused expression.   
  
“Good game,” she said.   
  
“Same to you,” he said, and held out his hand, near-mockingly. A handshake for battling warriors. She looked back up to to his eyes, which were crinkled at the edges, and made a snap decision to place the butterfly in his outstretched hand, brushing her fingers over his warm palm in the process.   
  
“Uh,” he said, and laughed awkwardly. “Thanks?”   
  
“You said you had reasons for wanting it,” she explained. She tried not to smile at the image of this tall, nicely-built guy holding a stuffed animal. It was an irrationally pleasing image to look at. Damned artistic sensitivity.   
  
She found her eyes locked in his gaze again, and he raised his eyebrows.   
  
“I assumed you had reasons too,” he said.   
  
“It was a dare,” she said simply. “I don’t actually want it. Not that it isn’t nice,” she added, in case he was actually a big butterfly enthusiast or something. “I just don’t need it.”   
  
He chuckled. “Can’t stand to lose, huh?”   
  
“It’s not that simple,” she said with a glare.   
  
“Easy princess, no need to get defensive.” He eyed her awkwardly, the butterfly placed in the crook of his arm.  
  
It was funny, she mused, how quickly he could go from cocky to awkward. Endearing, almost, if she was the kind of person to find that kind of thing endearing. Which she wasn’t.   
  
“Can I get your name?” he added, and it all shifted in her head, and she suddenly realized what was happening, what had been happening all along. _Of course_ this had been happening. _Of course_. This had all been an extended flirtation.   
  
She frowned up at him, thinking how nice it would be to get coffee or something with this guy, to talk to him, even kiss him or something. (Or something.) But memories came back to her, memories of distracting love triangle shit with Finn and Raven (thank God they were past that), memories of the not-so-nice person she’d become while she was dating Lexa, how very _unnecessary_ it all was. How infrequently she’d painted during those periods of time.   
  
“No,” she said, “sorry. Enjoy the butterfly.”   
  
Then she walked away and forced herself not to look back.   
  
\-----  
  
Four hours later, she marched back to her dorm room, firmly tipsy. Wells, being Wells, had offered to walk her back, but she’d refused.  
  
She let herself in to discover that her roommate was still out. No big surprise there; the girl apparently had a super overprotective family and barely got to leave the house when she was growing up, so she was taking advantage of college freedom at every opportunity.   
  
Clarke switched on the lights and tossed her purse on her neatly made bed. She was beginning to change into her pajamas (her favorite pair, because she was tired and irritable and just needed some soft flannel) when a brightly-colored _something_ caught her eye.   
  
Something blue. She squinted at her roommate’s side of the room. There, tossed haphazardly on Octavia’s pillow, was the bug-eyed butterfly Clarke had won earlier that evening.   
  
The stranger been trying to get the butterfly for a girl. For a girl who happened to be her _roommate_.   
  
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered.    
  
(Not that she cared.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I might be writing a lighthearted Bellarke college romcom. Sorry not sorry?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the misunderstanding is swiftly avoided and expository conversations are had.

The alcohol was buzzing a little in her skin and it had been a long day. Still, Clarke, couldn't get herself to fall asleep, so she told herself she was waiting up for her roommate, waiting to make sure she was alright.  
  
Or that it was because of artistic over-stimulation. That too, definitely that too.   
  
She took out her sketchbook and sat cross-legged on the floor, smoothing the flannel of her favorite pajama pants. Before college, most of her work had been speculative sketches; giant, uncolored trees, imaginary flowers. It was a good distraction from her father’s death, creating new things, documenting things that had never been seen before.   
  
Lately, perhaps due to the few art electives she’d been able to snag, she’d been drawing from reality, brushing up on her ability to capture an image in front of her. She glanced around the room, her gaze brushing over the butterfly, but she quickly looked away.   
  
There-- Octavia’s alarm, clock, inexplicably shaped like a panda. It looked old, battered. She began to sketch the shape and suddenly bones formed from her pencil, a panda skeleton, vastly different from the live object but the same base, the same impression.   
  
She lost herself in the sketching and therefore didn’t know how long it had been when she heard  voices outside her door.   
  
“I guess you’re still not gonna let me talk to you about this?”   
  
The tip of her pencil froze on the page. She recognized that voice.   
  
Octavia’s voice followed. “Like, okay, I get it. You don’t like me being on my own. So fucking _visit_ me, okay? Don’t follow me here.”   
  
His voice was strained. “I didn’t.”  
  
“Bell, there are tons of history MA programs. Like, do a basic google search. You didn’t have to choose this one.”   
  
“It’s the best one, okay? I got a scholarship.” His voice lowered. “Look, you’re acting crazy. You can’t tell me you’re fine on your own and then go out until, what, five in the morning? Without taking anyone with you, without telling anyone where you’ve gone.”   
  
“Without telling _you_ where I’ve gone, you mean.” She laughed harshly. “Can you blame me? I’m an adult, I don’t have to tell you and mom about every step I take anymore.”   
  
You and mom. _Oh_. Clarke thought of Octavia’s tanned skin and the dark glower she sometimes got in her eyes and felt promptly foolish for making assumptions about her relationship with the annoying stranger.   
  
He’d been trying to get a stuffed animal for his little sister, who (evidently) loved butterflies. That was kind of… sweet. _Not that sweet, Clarke_ , she told herself. Not sweet enough to do anything dumb because of it, like interrupt this obviously serious conversations, or have gratuitous daydreams about nice-looking guys with vaguely curly hair. She gripped her pencil and stared at the door, at the whiteboard (hers) attached to the top, at the bright pink towel (Octavia’s) that was hanging from the hook.  
  
“He’s out, O.” This was quieter, muffled. Clarke could barely hear the words. There was a pregnant pause.   
  
“So, you should be with mom,” Octavia responded finally, her voice strong. Clarke could hear a key jiggling in the lock. “Not me.”   
  
“Mom can take care of herself.”   
  
“And I can’t?”   
  
“Octavia--”  
  
“Look, we’re being super loud. We’re probably waking my roommate up.” Clarke glanced at the door, at the knob that was turning,  and looked back at the paper. She tried to quickly re-immerse herself in the drawing. Like that would fool anyone. Octavia probably wouldn’t blame her, she reasoned. She’d probably do the same thing, eavesdrop if it meant she could find out some interesting details about her (to be honest) somewhat enigmatic roommate.   
  
“Look, I don’t fucking care about your roommate, O,” he was saying as they entered, “I care about…”   
  
His voice trailed off and she looked up from her sketchbook. He was staring at her, mouth open a little. Octavia, all messy hair and stale partying clothes, looked back and forth between them wearily.   
  
“What?” Octavia said, “what is it?”   
  
He closed his mouth, seemingly regained his sense of control over the situation. “Nice to see you again, princess,” he said finally.   
  
“Huh? You two know each other?”   
  
“Yes,” her brother said at the same time as Clarke said “no.” Her roommate barked out another laugh and stripped off her tank top, digging around in her dresser.   
  
“Well I’m sure you can gape at each other more sometime else. For now leave, okay, Bell? We can continue this conversation never.”   
  
“Hey, since we’re obviously not waking your _roommate_ up…”   
  
“If you don’t leave,” Octavia said, all seriousness, “I’ll take off all my clothes and you’ll have to see me naked.”   
  
“Geeze, fine!” He backed up to the door. “Fucking psycho.” He cast Clarke one final look and gave her a short nod. She raised an eyebrow, saying nothing, and then he was gone.   
  
Clarke suppressed a smile. “Creative,” she commented, turning back to her sketch. Octavia continued to change, not looking in back of her.   
  
“Brothers,” she said slipping into an oversized teeshirt, “don’t like to think about the fact that their sisters have boobs.” She turned around, hopping on one leg as she removed her tights, which were graced with multiple holes. Clarke wondered if she did that on purpose or if they were just old; the girl seemed to own an awful lot of secondhand garments. “So,” she said, glaring down at Clarke, “you can’t pretend you didn’t hear some of that.”   
  
“Some of what?”   
  
“Bullshit.” She paused, looking like she was lost in thought, and impulsively sat down next to her, crossing her bare legs similarly. “Watcha drawing?”   
  
“Your alarm clock.” Clarke suppressed a smile as Octavia peered over her shoulder, frowning.  
  
“Yeah, if I got my alarm clock in Hot Topic instead of fucking Wal Mart.” She traced the lines of the panda skeleton. Her nail polish was bright purple, chipped, overbright in the fluorescent dorm lighting. “That’s pretty sick, Clarke.”   
  
“Thanks.” She did smile now, looking at her roommate. They’d probably be friends, she mused, if they saw more of one another.   
  
Octavia continued to trace the lines of the sketch and looked up at the pad of her pointer finger, now smudged with graphite. “So,” she started, still looking up, “how do you know my brother?” Her voice lowered unnecessarily. “Don’t tell me you hooked up with him or something.”   
  
“God no,” Clarke said quickly.   
  
“Good. That would be weird.”   
  
Clarke looked at her, the face she was making, the way she was curiously studying the graphite on her hand. It was make a good portrait, she thought, if she was a portrait artist. “He sounds… protective,” she said carefully. Not that she was curious.   
  
Okay, hell, she was curious.   
  
“That’s Bellamy in one word,” her roommate sighed, dropping her hands, playing with the ends of her hair. Restless. “It’s...” Her eyes met Clarke’s, calculating, dark. “It’s our dad,” she said finally, the words coming out in a quick puff of air. “He wasn’t… the nicest. Which was why I was never able to go out, to do anything when I was a kid. I mean, he was in jail, but they always worried. Youngest kid and all that. Only girl.”   
  
She laughed, but Clarke looked at her carefully, unsure of the specific implications of her words. “I’m sorry,” she told her, holding her gaze. “That sucks.”   
  
“Right? But, thing is, I can actually _do_ shit now. Mom never got it, that I was unhappy being stuck at home, not fucking allowed to do _anything_.” She looked away. “I thought Bell got it.”   
  
Clarke thought of the easy way Octavia had slipped into college life, into partying late into the night and all that. “Could have fooled me on the socialization front,” she said.    
  
“Hey, I wasn't a complete social pariah,” she laughed. “Bellamy used to sneak me out to parties. Not too often, but when he could. I got a taste for it.” She stood up, stretching her arms, and perched at the edge of her own bed. She began to fiddle with the plush antennae on the butterfly Clarke had won. “Guess I thought he understood how important trying stuff on my own was to me.” Her hand stilled. “Guess I was wrong.”   
  
Clarke thought of what she’d overheard. _He’s out, O_. “Sounds like he’s just concerned,” she said. Octavia nodded noncommittally and slipped under her blanket.   
  
“Turn the light out when you’re done, okay?” she said, signaling the end of the conversation. Clarke watched her for a few moments and finally stood up, rolling the kinks out of her shoulders. She couldn’t focus on finishing the drawing, anyway. Her head was too busy with thoughts of pretty siblings and unpleasant family histories. Unbidden, her thoughts drifted to her own father, not evil, not abusive, but gone. Out of her reach.   
  
When she slipped out to use the floor bathroom, she noticed a post-it stuck to the side of the door. Written on it was a phone number and a short note, which read:   
  
_princess--_  
 _text me sometime. got a favor to ask you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, I accidentally a Blake backstory.  
> A few things!  
> -Sorry if this wasn't exactly com, or all that rom... but we'll get there.  
> -I don't have a beta. If you're interested, let me know? In the meanwhile, please do point out any errors. I'd be happy to fix them.  
> -Thanks so so much to everyone who commented and left kudos on my first chapter! I'm super excited to write this (I just finished season two and needed to imagine these characters NOT KILLING LITERALLY EVERYONE) and super super excited that people are reading it! Keep being awesome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke has an awkward conversation. Or two.

The next day found Clarke sitting alone in Starbucks, waiting for Raven and trying to peruse her Intro to Human Physiology textbook. Classes didn’t start until the following morning, but Clarke was nothing if not prepared.  
  
Not that she was getting all that prepared. She couldn’t focus, what with the conversation from last night swimming around her head and the post-it note from Octavia’s brother burning a hole in her purse.   
  
( _Bellamy_ , she reminded herself, thinking back to her conversation with Octavia, his name is _Bellamy_. What kind of a name was Bellamy, anyway? Did their mother watch too much _Upstairs Downstairs_? And  too much _I, Claudius_ , while she was at it?)  
  
She hadn’t texted him, hadn’t even added his name to her phone, but she hadn’t thrown the note away either. She probably should, she thought. Whatever ‘favor’ he wanted from her probably wasn’t something he couldn’t get elsewhere. Unless it was to spy on Octavia, which was out of the question, anyway.   
  
Without realizing it, she’d dug into her purse and taken the note out, holding it between her fingers. The paper was light, so light. Why did it feel so heavy?   
  
“Mind if I sit down?”   
  
Startled out of her reverie, Clarke looked up… only to see her ex-girlfriend hovering patiently beside her.   
  
“Lexa,” she muttered. “Yeah, sure.”   
  
The other girl sat across from her with her usual straightforward grace, hands clasped around what was most likely a chai tea latte. Lexa was all about the chai tea lattes.   
  
Clarke was serious about the trying-to-be-friends thing, really she was, but seeing her sitting across from her made that post-it note burn even more. For some reason. Maybe it was looking at one of the two reasons she didn’t trust relationships anymore that did the trick. Or maybe it was that good old artistic sensitivity. “What’s up?” she said, setting her hands atop the cool pages of the textbook. Formal, a period drama.   
  
“I just saw you sitting here,” Lexa said carefully, “and thought I’d say hello.”   
  
“Hello.” Okay, on a scale from 1 to _Finn-when-Raven-transferred-to-this-college_ , just how awkward was this process going to be?   
  
“I was just wondering…” Lexa drifted off and started again. “We’re having a party, at the house tonight. You’re welcome to come.”   
  
Oh. A peace offering, a friendship kickstart, a... very awkward party invitation.   
  
Still, what could it hurt? Clarke wasn’t into the whole partying scene, but it might be a good distraction from the molotov cocktail of unpleasant things occupying her brain right now. “Okay,” Clarke said, “sounds good.”   
  
Lexa nodded, smiled. “You can bring friends, if you want.”   
  
“I will.”   
  
The other girl fiddled with the beads on her purse for a moment and then stood up, chai tea still in hand. “Okay,” she said. “Well, I’ll see you later then.”   
  
“See you,” Clarke echoed. No sooner had she stood up than Raven appeared, trudging along like she completely wasn’t ready to be awake (which, to be fair, she probably wasn’t). The two girls shared a terse smile, and Raven took her place at the table.   
  
Raven waited until Lexa had walked away before speaking. “That looked painful,” she commented with a yawn. Clarke squinted at her, taking in the slightly messy hair (unfairly, not too bad; hell and high water couldn’t make Raven look bad), the puffiness under the eyes. Definitely a hang-over. How late had she stayed up drinking with Finn?   
  
Worried-mother-mode kicked in but Clarke tried to shake it off. Raven knew how to be responsible with drinking, with decision-making. She had to, given her home life.   
  
“Wake up, Reyes,” she said finally. “It isn’t that early, you know.”   
  
“It’s always early.” She peered in back of her at the group of people waiting for their drinks. “God, my coffee’s gonna take a good half of forever to be ready.”   
  
“Here.” Clarke shoved her own drink towards Raven and she slurped it thankfully.   
  
“Ugh.” She made a face.  “What is this, marzipan-flavored or something?”   
  
“Hazelnut,” Clarke said blankly. “I don’t think marzipan coffee is a thing.”   
  
“It’s disgusting,” she said, continuing to drink, presumably for the caffeine content. “I don’t understand you, Griffin. So.” She shoved the now-empty cup aside. “What did small dark and hipster want?”   
  
“She invited me to a party tonight,” Clarke looked down at her textbook, which was still open to a page she hadn’t been able to focus on reading. “I think I’m gonna go. It might be fun.”   
  
Raven raised her eyebrows. “Just don’t post-breakup hook up with her. Never a good plan.”   
  
Clarke doubted that was in the cards, but she smiled at her friend anyway. “If you come with,” she said, over-sweet, “I won’t be tempted.”   
  
Raven laughed. “Nope, no, not going there. That group of people is too weird for me.” Lexa lived with a group of rather intense environmentalists and they rubbed most of Clarke’s other friends the wrong way.   
  
“There will be other people…”  
  
“No, absolutely not. Drag your roomie along, she likes to party hard.”   
  
Clarke noticed suddenly that she’d left Bellamy’s post-it note on the textbook page, that she’d presumably stuck it there while talking to Lexa. The highlighter-yellow was over-bright, practically leaping from the dingy white page. “Yeah,” she said, plucking it from the page and putting it in her purse, trying not to imagine that it singed her fingers. “I guess I could do that.”   
  
Her post-it-related reverie was interrupted by an expletive, and she looked up to see Raven frowning at her cell phone.   
  
“What?” Clarke asked.    
  
The other girl shook her head and tapped her forefinger on the phone. “Nothing I didn’t know already,” she muttered. “Financial shit.”   
  
“Oh.” Raven’s mother was supposed to lend her some money for the semester but Clarke wouldn’t be surprised if that had fallen through. It was a realm of distress Clarke wasn’t familiar with, coming from a wealthy family, so she shifted uncomfortably, wordless.   
  
“Stop being so awkward. I just have to get a job, is all.” Raven looked around and her eyes brightened. “Hey, can you see me being a barista?”   
  
“Not in a million years,” Clarke said honestly, and Raven’s eyes gleamed as she leaned forward.   
  
“Challenge accepted.”   
  
\-----  
  
A couple hours later, she texted him.   
  
Not that she wanted to all that much. But she’d decided that the source of the burning was, of course, curiosity. She needed to know what he wanted of her. That was all. That was it.   
  
_What do you want?_ she typed, and stared down at the text for a moment before sending it. Straightforward, blunt, not fuzzy in any way. Perfect.   
  
He texted back four minutes later (not that she was counting).   
  
_hello to you too. clark, is it?_  
  
 _You’re missing an e._  
  
 _eclark?_   
  
She laughed in spite of herself, and clapped a hand over her mouth. She was in the library, trying to actually get some of that damned textbook read. She shouldn’t have been texting at all, she reprimanded herself, but typed a response anyway.   
  
_Favor. You. What is it?_  
  
 _can we meet up and i’ll tell you?_  
  
She could see that. She could see meeting him, clandestine, outside the building, the two of them talking in low voices. She could see going to a bar, seeing him sitting there, lanky, languorous, waiting for her over a drink.   
  
Clarke could see a lot of things, but like her drawings often proved, seeing something didn’t make it real.   
  
_You’re a grown man, I’m sure you can type it out._  
  
 _fine, clearke._   
  
She waited, unimpressed, for an extended moment before receiving another message.     
  
 _it’s about my sister. i won’t go into our past, but she’s acting a little reckless right now. can you keep an eye on her for me, make sure she checks in with you?_   
  
_Knew it_ , Clarke thought, though not triumphantly. She released a loud huff of air (garnering a few irritated looks) before texting back.   
  
_Your sister’s an adult and I’m not a babysitter._  
  
 _look princess, i swear i’m not being crazy. i’m just worried about her._   
  
Unbidden, she remembered the conversation the night previous. 'He’s out' and all that.  
  
“Dammit,” she muttered before sending another text.   
  
_Fine. I’ll try to keep an eye on her. But no promises, and I’m definitely not going to be her jailer._   
  
A long pause, and Clarke wondered if she’d done something wrong, hit a sore point with the whole ‘jailer’ thing. But then her phone buzzed once more with just one word this time:   
  
_good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahaha so hi! I'm updating again. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't hate Lexa or Clexa... but this is a Bellarke story, and my main complaint with Lexa is the influence she had on Clarke, so there you go. Instant negative backstory (which I'll explain a little more later). 
> 
> Do you think momma Blake watched too many BBC shows? I do.


End file.
